Kirsty took a sip of her tea, trying to digest this shocking information. ‘A lot of girls think he’s a good catch,’ she said cagily. ‘I know of a few who would love to jump into your shoes. He’s good-looking with nice hair, a good worker . . . a great dancer. I know he’s not exactly the love of your life – but you’d be hard pushed to find somebody better around here.’ She leaned her elbows on the Formica table now, and looked up earnestly at her sister. ‘You might come to feel more for him later – and if you turn him down, you might regret it.’
‘I know all that,’ Heather said a little testily, the untouched supper in front of her now going cold. ‘And I know I should be grateful . . . but there’s something not quite right.’ She went silent. ‘I know it might sound stupid – but there’s times when I feel I’d rather be on my own, paying my own way, than chance making a mistake by wasting my life on the wrong person.’ She paused again. ‘What would you do, if it was you?’
‘Well . . .’ Kirsty said, ‘I wouldn’t be too hasty.’ Her eyes lit up now. ‘You could always string him along for a bit longer – see what happens. It would save you money in the
meantime, and your feelings could change towards him.’ She dug her sister gently in the ribs. ‘Alternatively . . .
you might meet somebody new in Glasgow with even more money, and then you could chuck Gerry and you wouldn’t have lost anything! And just think – if you get engaged now, you’ll always have a nice diamond ring to remember him by.’
‘Kirsty Grace!’ Heather said, laughing along with her sister in spite of herself. ‘I should have known better than to ask you for advice!’
Chapter 6
‘
Does it look OK? It doesn’t make my stomach look too big, does it?’ Kirsty twirled around in front of the fire in an off-the-shoulder, tight-waisted blue dress. She held out the wide skirt with the dark navy petticoat for her sister’s approval.
‘Gorgeous!’ Heather announced with a vigorous nod of her head. ‘It makes you look taller and really, really slim, and it’ll look lovely on the stage, the shiny material picks up the light.’
‘How’s the length?’ Kirsty checked, pleased that Heath
er said she looked a bit taller, as she was a good three inches shorter than her older sister and sometimes felt she got a bit lost with all the tall men in the band. ‘Not too long?’
‘Perfect,’ her mother said, delighted that she’d got the hem on the dress so straight. ‘It’s a perfect fit on you all over.’
‘
Long?
’ Fintan said, scratching his head uncertainly. ‘It’s almost up to your knees . . . and I think it’s a bit on the low side at the chest . . .’ He turned to his wife.
‘Could you not sew a wee triangle at the front where the bow is, and bring it up a bit higher? She’s a bit on the young side to be going out dressed like that –’
‘Daddy!’ Kirsty hissed, rolling her eyes. ‘These dresses are all the go – the Beverley Sisters and all the famous acts wear things like this. Don’t forget I’m the lead singer in the band. I’ve got to stand out from the rest of the girls at the dance.’
‘Well, you’ll certainly stand out in that get-up,’ Fintan said, nodding in exasperation. ‘And let’s hope it’s for your good singing and not for all the wrong reasons.’
‘I hope that oul’ fella that runs the hall has the radiators working tonight,’ Kirsty announced as two of the band members, resplendent in tuxedos and black bow-ties, reached their hands out to pull her into the back of the van, then went back to the bottles of beer they were drinking. Alcohol wasn’t allowed in the church halls so the lads always had a few drinks in the van at the beginning of the night, and another few at the break. They didn’t bother offering the young girl any, as they knew she preferred a lemonade or a cup of tea to beer – and they didn’t want to have to answer to Fintan Grace if he caught the smell of drink from his daughter.
Kirsty was warmly wrapped up in her mother’s fox-fur coat, with a finely knitted, blue lace scarf that her Auntie Mona had given her for her birthday back in October. A pair of sheepskin mittens completed the ensemble – Kirsty Grace was not taking any chances with the Scottish winter weather.
‘Once you get up on that stage, you’ll soon warm them all up,’ a dark, curly headed young fellow called back from the driver’s seat. Martin Kerr was the lead guitarist and the male vocalist who harmonised with Kirsty or took over a few songs halfway through the night to give her a break. He also owned the van in which they drove to their singing venues. ‘When we play those new numbers we’ve practised, they’ll all be up on the floor.’
‘It’s
me
I’m worried about, not the dancers,’ Kirsty laughed, carefully settling herself into one of the cracked, black plastic seats, which Martin had unsuccessfully attempted to repair with peeling black duct-tape. Apart from using the van to convey the musical equipment, he often used it as a minibus taxi to earn a few extra pounds when he wasn’t playing.
‘I had flu for a week the last time we played in this dive,’ Kirsty went on, ‘and I blame that oul’ fella for trying to save on the coal.’ The dance hall wasn’t one of their favourite venues, only being a church hall, but it always got a good turn-out in the winter when people didn’t want to travel too far from home.
‘There’s supposed to be a big booking agent from Glasgow here tonight,’ Martin called over his shoulder. ‘So you never know your luck.’
‘I’ve heard that one before,’ Kirsty reminded him, feigning the world-weary attitude of an older woman. ‘I won’t be holding my breath. I’ve never seen any booking agents at the places we play in.’ Then, as the van pulled away from the kerb, she turned around to the window to see if young Lily was watching out for the van. She spotted the little pixie face at her aunt’s window three houses down and gave a big cheery wave. The little girl held the dog up now, and waved its paw – obviously all ready and waiting. Kirsty laughed to herself. She was very, very fond of Lily, who was much more like a younger sister than a cousin. The conversation she’d had with Heather about never seeing Lily again suddenly came back into her mind and she shivered at the thought. ‘Oh, you’re a right cynic, for an eighteen-year-old girl, Kirsty Grace,’ Joe Hanlon, the drummer and oldest member of the group said now. For all he ran the local boxing club, Joe was known to be a mannerly, amiable type of fellow. ‘Where’s all the starry-eyed ambition that you used to have?’ He shook his head at the two fellows opposite him. ‘I can mind you only last year thinkin’ that every smartly dressed stranger that came into the clubs might be a famous booking agent that might discover us.’
‘Och, that was when I was daft and impressionable,’ Kirsty said, waving her hand. ‘A year makes a big difference. Weekends of driving from one damp, freezing dance hall to another fairly keeps your feet on the ground. Oh, there’s nobody will pull the wool over my eyes now, I know what to expect. I’ve no illusions about it, if it gives me a bit of pocket money for clothes and getting my hair done, that’s as good as it gets.’
‘Famous last words,’ Joe warned her. ‘Famous last words.’
The hall was inarguably warmer than the previous time they had played in it, and the fellows in the band constantly teased Kirsty about how she had terrified the poor caretaker into action. She cheerfully ignored their banter as they methodically set up their instruments on the small stage, thinking to herself that the whole place could have done with a good sweep out. Then, while the boys were setting up her microphone, Kirsty went off to find the beleaguered hall caretaker to see if he could find a bit of string that might hold up one of the faded green, velvet curtains so that it would at least look as though it vaguely matched the curtain opposite. She had mentioned this along with the lack of heating to him on their previous visit, and she intended to make the point again, taking the attitude that if nothing was said, nothing would be done.
The crowd started to drift in shortly afterwards, and within half an hour, the hall was packed and the band members were all ready to begin their warm-up numbers. Kirsty had already run through her songs in her bedroom at home, making sure that her voice was ready for the harder notes as the night wore on.
They slid into a few lively Bill Haley numbers that they knew would get the crowd stirred up, and then after Martin gestured to the caretaker to dim the main lights as he was supposed to have done, they played a few slower numbers before swinging into their set programme.
As she sang, Kirsty found herself going through all the wo
rds in a perfect but mechanical fashion, having no trouble hitting the notes in any of the songs, old and new. Recently, when she was on stage, her mind kept wandering to more exotic places like the scenes from
South Pacific
and films with Mario Lanza or whatever latest musical show she had seen or heard on radio. She even found herself thinking longingly of the amateur musicals she had been involved in back in her secondary school days. That’s where it had all started – her love of music and singing. With the help of an enthusiastic older music teacher who had encouraged her to go for proper singing lessons.
They stopped halfway through the night and the fellows went out into the van for their beer while Kirsty went down the rickety wooden steps from the stage into the small ante-room where a cup of tea and a small iced cake were waiting for her. She was leaning against the radiator with the fur coat draped around her shoulders and the hot cup in her hands, pondering over the latest situation with Heather and Gerry, when suddenly the door from the main hall burst open.
‘Where is he?’ snapped a familiarly aggressive voice, reminiscent of a movie gangster. It was a small local fellow
with slicked-back red hair – well known to be a troublem
aker – who had been banned from several clubs for fighting.
‘You’re not supposed to be in here – this is only for the band.’ Kirsty stated, her brows deepening and disapproval written all over her face. They often got clowns who had drunk too much causing trouble like this.
‘Fuck off and don’t tell me what to do!’ he said, looking back over his shoulder out into the crowd. ‘Where is that big bastard?’
‘Don’t dare talk to me like that!’ Kirsty said, moving from the radiator to the table at the centre of the small room. She slid the fur coat from her shoulders onto the back of a chair. ‘You’ve no right to come in here cursin’ and shouting your head off – and I haven’t even the faintest notion of who you’re talking about.’
‘That blidey Martin Kerr . . . he’s got it comin’ to him!’ His eyes were getting wilder now. ‘I’m goin’ to give him a right doin’ over the night,’ he said, his hand reaching suspiciously inside his jacket. ‘When I’m finished with him, I’ll make sure he’ll never be able to hold a guitar again.’
‘Aw, don’t talk nonsense!’ Kirsty said, her tone derisory now. It was amazing how drink made these eedjits so dramatic. ‘He’ll kill you – he’s nearly twice your height and build. Don’t be so stupid.’ Her voice lowered; fights were part and parcel of the dance halls, and most of them came to nothing more than skirmishes. But the wild look in this fellow’s eyes told her that it was best to try to diffuse the situation if at all possible – especially when his issue was with one of the band members. ‘Look, if I was you,’ she told him putting her cup down on the table, ‘I’d just forget whatever is annoyin’ you and go and enjoy your evening dancing. They’ll only chuck you out and ban you, and then you’ll miss all the good dances over Christmas and New Year.’ She gave him an understanding little smile. ‘Now, you wouldn’t want that to happen, would you? Christmas is the best time of the year.’
‘Fuck off, you!’ was his reply. ‘Nobody tells me what to do.’
Just then the door from the stage end opened and Joe Hanlon came down the steps followed by Martin.
‘Kerr – ya rotten big bastard!’ the little fellow said, advancing towards the men. His hand went inside his jacket again and this time it came back out wielding a toasting fork, a good nine inches long. He held the fork aloft. ‘Let’s see what a big man you are now!’
Joe and Martin moved backwards back up the steps, trying to size up the situation. The little fellow was known for being vindictive and unpredictable.
‘I’ve no row wi’ you,’ Martin told him. ‘I don’t know what all this daft carry-on is about.’
‘Well, I’ve got a fuckin’ row with you!’ the little guy informed him, waving the fork in the air. ‘Chuckin’ me off your mouldy oul’ rust-bucket of a van last weekend and leavin’ me to walk home two miles in the fuckin-well rain. Ma good suit was ruined!’
Martin had a vague memory of a drunken football crowd he had carried causing ructions in the back of the van and pulling into the side of the road where the worst two fellows were pushed out.
‘There’s no need for any of this!’ Joe warned him, moving between them now. ‘You can settle your argume
nts outside
the hall when the dance is over, and without resorting to weapons.’
‘Put the fork down,’ Martin told him calmly, ‘and we can go outside right now and sort our differences out.’
‘Do it!’ Joe shouted, in an authorative tone. ‘Because if you use that thing, you’re only goin’ to get a sore face and m
aybe even land yersel’ in jail.’ Joe took up a boxing stan
ce, his fists held out defensively, while Martin, eyes narrowed, came in close behind him. The red-headed fellow hesitated for a second, and when Kirsty saw his arm go slightly limp she came behind him and her hand shot out and grabbed the fork right out of his grip. Almost at the same time Joe moved forward and swung the fellow around, forcing his hands behind his back and his head down onto the table.